


Twelve-Bar Blues

by anythingbutblue



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/pseuds/anythingbutblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Julia was with Vicious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve-Bar Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaFemmeDarla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaFemmeDarla/gifts).



The sky is the same deep blue-black of the Chrysalis bottle that rolls gently around the passenger side floorboard. A nice night under the Tharsis City dome even with the accompanying patter of rain courtesy of Climate Control.

Julia doesn't mind it. She never does.

Traffic slows on Market Street, theatergoers milling the sidewalks and ducking into the restaurants on either side of the road before their show starts. The silver lining is that it allows her to spot a familiar figure with his back toward her, his hair and his height and the casual slope of his shoulders unmistakable. Nearing him, her foot lingers on the brake, and she lowers her window enough to be heard when she calls out. "Spike!"

Hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips, he turns to see her.

She waves. "Want a ride?"

He doesn't need to be asked more than once. As he sprints in front of her to the passenger door, she unlocks it for him.

It feels like progress; a month or two ago he wouldn't have taken her up on the offer. He'd have forced a smile, shaking his head, and waved her on, claiming he was close to wherever he wanted to go or he just needed the exercise. Spike, of all people, needing the exercise. 

It was all right when that happened. It had a little bit of a sting, but it was always easy to guess the truth behind it. People don't usually stare as openly as he did the first time they met.

"Hey. Thanks for the lift." Long-legged in his seat, he picks up the bottle at his feet as she drives. "Chrysalis," he goes on, sounding surprised around his cigarette. "Spendy. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." Reaching out, she lowers the radio's volume a notch. "Vicious said I should pick some up for dinner tonight. It's his favorite." 

He tapped his cigarette against his open window, aiming ash out of the car, but she could hear the surprise in his voice, barely held in check. "Vicious has a favorite wine?"

She feels a smile threaten the corners of her mouth. "So I'm told."

He rests the bottle across his lap, making full use of his leg room. "Full of surprises, isn't he."

It's not a question -- not really -- and she glances sideways at him. " _Is_ he?"

After four months of dating Vicious she knows that calling him quick to open up would be a lie. In a way she likes it; each time he chooses to is that much more interesting. He plays his cards close to his chest, but he's not the only one who's been accused of that. She knows he has no immediate family left, having been raised to the age of eleven by his now-deceased grandmother. She knows he's calculated, sharp as the blade of a knife, ambitious, well-trained.

Spike flicks the cigarette out the window, then shrugs with maddening nonchalance. "Seems that way."

Turning left onto Orpheus, she curbs her natural instinct to speed. Annie's store is coming up, and that means she's got a block to make an offer before reaching his building. "You have dinner plans?"

Poking holes in Spike's indifference feels almost as rewarding as cracking Vicious's cool reserve. It's not what drives her to ask -- she's asking to be friendly, inclusive -- but she still enjoys it. She glances over again to see a dubious look on his face.

"Me?" He shrugs. "A night in with zip-heat noodles and some beer. Unless I decide to go across the street to Ko's. Then I'm thinking pizza."

"Want to join us instead?"

He lets out a short surprised laugh. "I'd hate to intrude on a night with Chrysalis."

Her lips press together in another smile. "If it'd be an intrusion I wouldn't have invited you."

After a hesitation, he grins, almost grudgingly. "Good point. Maybe I should ask what's for dinner before I make up my mind."

Her eyes dart in his direction again -- is he kidding? -- but the smile doesn't leave her face.

*

Slouched on her couch, Spike seems to have a real gift for making himself at home anywhere. He has just enough courtesy to try to avoid putting his feet up on her coffee table, but it's not like she owns an ottoman and there's nothing sacred about the table. The second time he shifts in place she props her own feet up on its edge, leading by example, and it doesn't take him long to follow suit.

The remains of their cigarettes smolder side-by-side in an ashtray near their feet, and the smell of seasoned beef wafts in from the kitchen. Soon she'll have to switch gears to keep the meal warm until Vicious shows up.

When Spike's stomach growls he pats it with one hand. "He's late," he comments, voice tinged with a laughable reproach.

"I didn't think Vicious was ever late." Her comm has been on, but it's been as silent as her home phone since they walked in.

Spike's mouth forms an impressively horizontal line.

"Why aren't you involved in whatever this is?" Her eyes find the clock, checking the time, and she reaches for her half-empty glass of wine. "I thought you two were basically partners."

"Basically," he echoes. "Mao's been very good to us, and he'd like to follow in Mao's footsteps. When there's extra credit work on the table he'll do it. Most of the time."

She swirls her wine in her glass, the red so deep it looks like liquid garnets, but after a sip she watches Spike. "But you aren't following in Mao's footsteps?" It almost feels strange to address Mao Yenrai so casually, regardless of how often she hears Spike and Vicious do it.

He spreads one hand, dismissive. "If Vicious wants that kind of responsibility he's welcome to it."

"Not the management type?"

His exhale is short, sharp, half a laugh. "Far from it." He rolls his neck as though it needs to pop. "What about you? How much do you care about working up the Dragons' ladder?"

It's only fair to have the question turned back around on her. "This isn't a job you quit," she points out.

"No." The word sounds uncharacteristically serious. "It's not."

"So I think we can say I care about advancing. Believe it or not, Spike, I like living."

The moment of sincerity dissolves, and he almost laughs again. "You may be in the wrong line of work."

*

"Vicious, it's me." Phone to her ear, she turns away from the table, leaving Spike to fill his plate and start eating. He doesn't seem particularly worried, which makes her think she shouldn't be. Still, she wouldn't feel like much of a girlfriend if she didn't make an attempt to reach him. "It's almost nine. Spike's here and we’re eating, but I've set aside a plate for you." How does she end a call like this? Don't get killed? Take care of yourself? 'I love you' hasn't come out of either of their mouths yet. "You may want to pick up more Chrysalis on your way. Take care out there. I'll be waiting."

Without any idea where he is, it feels like all she can do for the time being. Headquarters will only give her fine details she's meant to have. When she sets the phone down again she feels the weight of Spike's eyes on her before she even turns to face him.

"No luck?"

She shakes her head. "No answer."

An apology flickers across his face. "Welcome to the Dragons." Glass in one hand, he idly rubs the back of his neck with the other. "If it's any consolation," he adds, aiming the smallest of smiles at her, "no one could kill Vicious easily. Believe me, we've been sparring for the past eight years."

"That's what I'm told." She almost smiles back as she picks up the Chrysalis bottle and pours a little more into her glass.

"So I'm a topic of conversation." He chews just enough not to have a full mouth. "Do I want to know what my reputation is?"

Now she can't fight the smile that creeps onto her face. Sliding into the chair across from him, she glances down at her plate and picks up her fork. "Oh, I've heard about you from everyone. Annie says nobody has a harder head, and sometimes she calls you a show-off. Mao talks about you like you're his own son. Shin idolizes you."

"Lin's brother?" He grins, enjoying himself. "They're good kids, but I noticed you didn't say anything about Vicious."

A laugh slips out of her. "You're his closest friend. You work well together. You have excellent aim, but your strength is hand-to-hand combat. Sometimes you're lazy but never while you’re on the job."

"That's a fair assessment." He shrugs one shoulder, but there's a sliver of surprise in the concession.

"He thinks Mao would groom you as his replacement in a heartbeat if you'd agree to it."

Amusement ebbing, he nods to concede that point as well. "That may be." He picks up his glass, but he doesn't drink from it immediately. Instead he uses it to gesture toward her. "Want to know what I've heard about you?"

Somehow it feels like a mistake, but she nods.

He straightens in his seat like he's about to give a speech. "You were born on Earth. You're a woman of many talents: you impressed a lot of people when you stole that shipment of Red Eye right out from under the Tigers' noses in old L.A., you're a great cook, and you can get blood out of anything."

It's twice as interesting to hear how she's been described since almost everything had to come straight from Vicious's mouth.

"Oh," Spike adds, voice lighter, "and you're really beautiful."

She blames the wine for the heady gratification that settles into her chest, but she knows that's only half true. Again, she smiles at him across the table. "So you hear."

His grin widens. "Exactly."

*

"Julia."

Vicious never says who he is when he calls, but he does always say her name in greeting and she'd know his voice anywhere. Even though she knows how capable he is, she's flooded with sudden relief to hear him.

He goes on quickly: "I apologize for the wait. I'm on my way now."

"It's fine," she assures him.

"Is Spike still there?"

Watching her more closely than he probably means to, Spike sits back in his chair and raises his eyebrows.

"Yes."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

She doesn't have a lot of friends she simply calls on the phone for conversation, but even so Vicious's calls are among the most efficient she's ever had.

As she puts the phone down again, Spike clears his throat. "What did I tell you?" Slowly, limbs stretching, he rises from the table. "Not many people could get away with a name like Vicious, you know."

A ghost of a smile crosses her face. When she met Vicious she thought his name was either total bullshit or a giant red flag; he wasn't a muscle-bound brute or an obvious psychopath craving his next kill. He was the most arresting presence in the room: tall, striking, impeccably dressed. His good posture seemed effortless, his eyes quietly watchful. She had a feeling he didn't miss much. She also had a feeling he thought of her as a pleasant surprise. When Tigers stormed the building, hoping to win back the Red Eye she and her people had stolen, she quickly came to understand the name Vicious. For their enemies he was death on two legs, swift and quiet and merciless. Had they not been allies, he could've shot her in the head without hesitation. "I know."

"I should go."

"You don't have to." She suspects Vicious won't mind one way or another. "In fact, I think he expects you to be here."

"Right," he laughs, taking a step toward the door. "He comes in late after a long day of work, and his best friend is keeping his girlfriend company by eating all the food and drinking all the wine. Speaking of which, I'm not much of a wine drinker, but that Chrysalis stuff isn't bad."

Her lips quirk. "Should I stash a bottle away for the next time you visit?"

It's there in his eyes: first a hint of surprise, then amusement and a pleased kind of acceptance. It's funny, but she could swear his eyes don't match. "Your call. I'll drink whatever you put in front of me."

Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's just that she's watching his eyes more closely than usual. As she follows him to the door, she has to comment on it. "Your eyes are different colors."

With his hand on the doorknob, he turns to face her. "My left eye sees the past." As if in demonstration, he closes his right eye, the one that's a shade lighter.

It doesn't really answer her questions, but she didn't really _ask_ one, did she? Leaning her shoulder against the wall, she feels herself smiling again. "And what about your right eye?"

Opening the right once more, he closes the left eye and looks straight ahead, straight at her. "It sees you."

*

One of her least favorite things about Vicious is how cold his hands and feet get. Every now and then she feels compelled to take his slender fingers in hers and hold them between her palms to warm them up. Most of the time -- like now, in the comfort of her bed -- he lets her.

Not without an air of quiet indulgence.

Her left hand wraps around his fingers, but her right slides up his forearm, tracing lean muscle until it hits the edge of the fresh bandage around his elbow. "Who patched you up tonight?"

Surely he can tell her that much about the job.

"Armstrong. He doesn't have your bedside manner, but he knows how to clean a knife wound."

"That's reassuring," she teases, a laugh in her throat.

Rising over her, puts his weight on his arms and ducks his head, making his hair a silvery sheen against her cheeks. If there's any pain or strain from his injury, he ignores it entirely. "How was your night?"

Looking up at him, she lets her eyebrows ask if what he really wants to do right now is get a report on dinner with his best friend. "Less eventful than _your_ night, I imagine." 

"How diplomatic of you."

She rests a hand on the side of his face, drawing him in for a kiss. "I think Spike's warming up to me."

Even in the dim light she can make out the way his mouth slants in a small but matter-of-fact smirk. "He was never cold."

"He's tried."

His reply is a second kiss, his lips parting against hers, and all talk of Spike -- or anything -- ends as abruptly as it started. He puts up no resistance when she pushes herself up and coaxes him onto his back, taking any pressure off his sliced elbow. It frees his hands, after all.

Later she rolls onto her side, boneless with satisfaction, and his body follows, fitting tightly against hers. He folds one possessive arm over her.

"Before the end of the year Mao plans to send me off-world."

For a moment she doesn't say anything. It's hard to cling to the haze of contentment once confusion starts chipping away at it. "For good?"

"No." Just under her breasts, his hand flattens against her skin. "The assignment is temporary, but I expect it to take about six months."

Her hand folds over his. "Can you tell me where you'll be going?"

"Titan."

*

"Some of the details vary, but every time, I go to a club and hear my mother sing the same old Earth love songs she always listened to when I was small. I'm not always with the same people, but when I leave the club it's always raining. The rain doesn't fall, though. It rises."

Checking the rearview mirror and switching lanes, Vicious comes dangerously close to smiling for her. "I don't have recurring dreams."

That's possible. She turns to watch his face. "Or not that you remember."

"I don't often have dreams worth a repeat performance."

"That's a sh--"

Gunshots end her sentence early. For the space of a heartbeat she's frozen, but then a bullet fragments the rear windshield.

Someone in the nearest car is screaming.

Reaching into her coat, she draws the gun from her hip holster and peers around her headrest. "Tigers?" she hisses. If so, it's brazen of them to attack in Tharsis City in broad daylight.

"No." Vicious veers them around a line of stalled cars to turn at the nearest intersection. "A man escaped me last night," he explains, offering as little information as possible. Each word is bitten out, laced with venom. "He ran into Tharsis Mall and disappeared into the crowd. This is payback."

"I see them. Black four-door on our five." Two men lean out of windows with guns in their hands while a third drives. There may be one more. "Hang right."

Vicious may not normally take orders from anyone other than Mao Yenrai, but he immediately does as she suggests, the car's tires protesting his reckless speed. She unbuckles and kneels on her seat, aiming through her window. Pain flares across her cheek -- a graze, she's sure -- and her first shot connects with the side mirror. The second shot, aim adjusted, makes the front passenger jerk back in pain, his face contorting. With fewer bullets flying at her face she's got a better chance of nailing their tires, but she wishes she had control of the wheel and the man who had Dragon tutors from the time he was a preteen could take the shots. This isn't playing to their strengths.

A sharp intake of breath makes her look in toward Vicious, and she hears herself gasp when she sees blood seeping through the arm of his coat, a bullet hole piercing his seat back. 

There's no time to tend to wounds until they shake these bastards. She leans out again -- somehow they've ended up on Orpheus, busy as usual at this time of morning -- and she does her best to line up her shot. The early traffic only aides the other driver's evasive manuevers, but the cars around them do their best to get out of the way, car horns and cries of panic filling the air.

The man she hit is hanging out of his window again -- she can see blood on his hands -- and this time her bullet sends him slumping, the gun falling from his grasp. Satisfied, she aims again, this time at a front tire, but all she can see is a sliver and the shot goes wide. Vicious turns them down a narrow side street, almost nosing the side of a building, and for a second her view is obstructed but the gunfire doesn't stop.

To her surprise the dark four-door swerves madly into the alley behind them, one hubcap sparking against the road. The front end crumples against the very brick wall they managed to avoid. Vicious brakes so she can do what needs to be done, allowing her a clean shot at the driver, stuck behind a billowing air bag. 

An echoing shot rings out from somewhere, and the man behind the other driver goes limp in his seat. A familiar figure, gun drawn, steps into view behind the smoking sedan.

"Looked like you two needed some help," Spike calls out.

*

In Annie's back room, surrounded by shelves of boxes, she looks up and allows Spike to examine her face. The slice on her cheek stings hotly as he cleans it.

"Mao's going to love this," Annie mutters, wrapping gauze around Vicious's upper arm. "At least there are no bullets in you. Who were they?"

"Fallout from my last assignment." Vicious is a step away from seething, and she feels certain he's as mad at himself as he is with the men who were after him; she's never known such a perfectionist.

"You'll be needing a new car," Annie goes on.

"He needed one before," Spike butts in. The look Vicious shoots him isn't kind, but it doesn't ruffle him. "That thing handled like a cardboard box."

"I'll talk to Mao." Vicious isn't inviting more discussion.

Spike keeps himself busy by dressing her cheek, and the whole time she can't shake the feeling that situations like this aren't all that unusual for them. Even Vicious, his jaw tense, sits obligingly for Annie as though this is routine.

She turns her eyes toward Spike. "How does it look?"

"None of _us_ wear wounds so well." Finished, he steps away. "Do you think your apartment is safe? They must've staked Vicious out last night."

She's almost embarrassed that she hasn't thought that far yet.

"This was about last night's mission," Vicious speaks up again, voice level. "These men had no connections to our rivals. I don't foresee further complications."

"Maybe," Annie offers quietly, finally sitting back in her chair, "Julia would feel more secure somewhere else."

"After Mao debriefs her she can weigh her options." Vicious stands, brushing past the others to stand in front of her. He tips her chin up to inspect Spike's work. "In the meantime," he adds, attention narrowing to her, "you're welcome to spend the week at my place." 

*

All three of them pile into the back seat of the car sent from headquarters. Sitting with Vicious to her right and Spike to her left, she can still feel the lingering thrum of adrenaline but there's a weight off her shoulders. Before she joined the Dragons there was no one to clean up after her; there were no police connections to patch things over. Organized crime has its perks.

Spike offers her a cigarette, and she gratefully accepts, leaning into him just long enough to get a light. Vicious declines.

"I guess you two have plans for tonight."

Her knee touches Vicious's. His shrug is so slight it barely happens, but she feels the motion beside her. "Not exactly," she answers honestly.

"Pool at Ko's?" Opening his window, Spike blows a stream of smoke toward it. "I'm feeling lucky."

It's the first time Spike has taken the initiative on an invitation. He _is_ warming up.

Behind her cigarette, she smiles at him. "You're on."


End file.
